


Another Bed

by nbarker1990



Category: The Voice (US) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7655311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbarker1990/pseuds/nbarker1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her pillow is cold and so he rolls over, buries his nose in it and pretends he can still breathe in her scent...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Bed

**i.**

Her pillow is cold and so he rolls over, buries his nose in it and pretends he can still breathe in her scent. Truthfully, though, she hasn’t stayed over in days and if anyone were to see the master bedroom, they wouldn’t be able to tell that she’d ever stepped foot in it. 

“I need space,” she keeps telling him and he’s found himself wondering if that’s gonna change when they finally get married in a few months, or if this uneasy place they seem to be in (or maybe it’s just him who feels that; she seems content) will just be the norm. There’s no moral or religious or even practical reason why she seems to run back to her own ranch after a few days living with him, and that’s the difficult thing for him. It’s obvious that she loves him, but sometimes he gets the feeling she doesn’t LIKE him all that much, and the more time she spends with him, the more that feeling is amplified. 

“Thank god,” he murmurs under his breath as the door creaks open, and he hears her footsteps down the hall. He recognizes them immediately, and he feels his stomach get slightly jittery when the room floods with light as she switches the light on and quickly changes into the one set of pajamas she’d agreed to leave at ‘his’ house. 

“I missed you, Blake,” she says as she crawls under the covers and curls up at his side, her small hand coming to rest on his chest. Her voice is soft and vulnerable and he holds it close to his heart. He loves the fierce, fiery, temperamental, independent Miranda, but this Miranda is the one who owns him.

 

** ii.  **

They haven’t argued in something like a whole week, and how sad is it that he thinks that that might be a record of some kind. There are all kinds of relationships, Blake knows that, and he’s accepted that theirs is just more complicated than most others. Picking up his phone, he starts checking Twitter, scrolling quickly through his mentions and trying to resist the urge to defend himself against some of the people trying to pick a fight. 

When he realizes what his wife has done, though, it’s more than that feeling of frustration that overcomes him. It’s hurt. “What the fuck, Ran!?” he calls out, loud enough that he knows she’ll hear him from where she’s bedded down in the living room. “What the ever living fuck!? You’ve got me blocked?”

She pads into his room moments later, frown twisting her face and bottle in hand. “You called?”

“You. Blocked. Me.”

His wife raises an eyebrow. “Stop being so immature. It’s just Twitter.” 

“It’s just a fucking symbol of everything wrong with our relationship is what it is.”

“And people think I’m dramatic. For chrissakes’ sake, Blake.”

He swallows his retort (dramatic is the scene she made in the bar last week, when she’d accused him of doing half the town), and gets up, closes the door in her face. Maybe next time, they’ll make eight days.

 

** iii.  **

He can still hear the sounds of the crew outside the bus, and he wishes they’d fuck off. He’s alone with his wife for the first time in what feels like months, and he needs this time with her. Things have been off recently (even more than usual) and there’s this foreboding he can’t get around. Ran’s withdrawn from him, doesn’t reach out anymore, and when they do get the chance to talk, things are stilted. He’s been in love with her for about a decade, and yet he feels like a stranger to her.

“Stop. Please,” she pleads, his hands having found their way under her new cute pink top, his fingers stroking the soft skin just beneath her breasts. He groans in frustration, flops onto his back. What the fuck. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” he eventually asks, breaking the silence between them. “What’s happening here?”

“Nothing is.”

And she’s correct, even if not in the way Blake thinks she intended. “Why won’t you let me touch you, sweetheart? I’ve missed you so much and you’re so gorgeous and - ”

Her kiss - fierce and angry and without finesse - stops him in his tracks, has him sighing in relief but also frustration. He doesn’t want her like this, resentful and in pain. She winces when he pulls away, cringes when he removes her hands from where they were stroking him through his pants. 

“I still miss you,” he admits to himself as she turns her back to him.

 

** iv. **

“Blake, open the freaking door!”

Groaning, he buries his head in the pillow, tries to ignore the shrill call from outside his house and also the whining from his dog. Eventually, he’ll get up and feed Betty, he will. Just not yet…

When he next wakes up, he’s alone in silence, the blankets over his head and his legs tangled in a sheet at the bottom of bed. He could stay here forever, he actually thinks he could. Checking the time on his phone is a wake-up call, a reminder of how bad things have gotten. Has he even eaten today? Drunk? He doesn’t think so. The latter is easily fixed, and he stretches a long arm down to the floor, picks up the half-emptied bottle of vodka there. 

Miranda had gotten him this particular bottle for Christmas, and he’d been saving it for a special occasion. Mourning his marriage, noting what a failure he’s become, learning to hate instead of love his wife? That counts, surely. 

Endy’s warned him to be careful, that she understands his pain (she doesn’t) and the betrayal (she doesn’t), but that bitterness and resentment are only going to hurt HIM in the long run. Frankly, Blake doesn’t give a shit. He’s already hurt enough that another layer isn’t going to make a difference. He tips the bottle up, makes sure he gets every last drop, and then burrows back under the comforter. He stinks, his beard is too long, and he swears his hair has literally gone grayer in just the past few weeks. 

But he doesn’t care. Not about that, not about anything. Maybe that’ll change soon, he doesn’t know. But then, apparently he’s the dumbest hick in America because he hadn’t even known what everyone else apparently did - his wife liked sharing her bed.

 

** v. **

Laughing, he quickly shoots her another text, includes a selfie of his incredulous expression (because she’s always asking him to send pictures, and god, his ego will be the size of Jupiter if this keeps up) for good measure. 

There’s no answer forthcoming and so he reclines back against the pillows on his bed, letting the sheets drop to his lap. Betty’s sitting with him, nuzzling into his stomach for some reason he can’t fathom. “Hey, fatty,” he croons to her. “Wanna say hi to your favorite girl, do you?”

Last week, he’d Facetimed Gwen for the first time, an experience that had been surreal in almost every way. His dumb dog, though, had decided that she was the star of the show, and he’d spent a solid ten minutes trying to push her away so he could actually see Gwen’s face instead of Betty’s asshole as her wagging tail hit his cheeks with more force than he’d anticipated. 

The moment he hears the incoming text, he almost feels guilty for how quickly he reaches for the phone. He’s all too aware this is becoming addictive, being able to talk to her every day. At first it had been a means to an end, the blessing of someone understanding EXACTLY what he was going through and helping him. And vice versa, he’d hoped. Now, though? Now she sends him short videos of the boys fighting in the backyard, selfies of her hanging out at home, random texts with links to funny YouTube videos, even - once - a sample of a song she was working on. He’d almost cried when he’d heard it. 

**hey cowboy. miss you. gx**

He blinked at the photo embedded in the message. Once. Twice. Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. Was she even wearing a bra?! And how did she look so perfect at this time in the morning!? Why the fuck wasn’t he there with her in her bed!? Taking a deep breath, he tapped out a quick reply. 

**your beautiful. so beautiful. and i miss you too. xxx**

 

**vi.**

“I think I’m in heaven. Literal heaven.” Her breath comes heavy, staggered, and he wants to memorise the sound, have it running permanently through his mind. That and the way she’d screamed his name the first time he’d made her come, his tongue on her, his fingers in her. Heaven indeed…

“I had no - ”

“Idea, right?” She laughs. “Well, I did.” Her hands slowly make their way up his body, sending what feels like tiny little shocks to every part of him. She’s laying beside him, her lithe body tucked up against him like she belongs there. Smugly, she tweaks a nipple, laughs loudly when he winces. “I KNEW it would be good.”

“I’m too tired to let that inflate my ego,” Blake says with a grin, patting her ass and dropping a soft kiss on her lips. “But if you want to tell me that every time we have sex, I won’t object.”

Her laugh is surprised and happy and all things light and good. He understands more than anyone that them finally (and maybe it was inevitable; right now, he thinks it was) making love, finding comfort in each other, doesn’t erase the complications and pain and hang-ups she has. But right now, with her contented sigh against his still rapidly beating heart, her expression tender and her fingers running through his curls with obvious affection, it’s a worry that will come later. He wants to exult in this joy, the joy of coming together with someone so goddamned beautiful, someone who is so open-hearted and kind and loyal.

He still can’t believe she wants to be with HIM. 

“Babe,” she says (her voice sleepy now, lower), and his heart stutters. She doesn’t seem to realize what she’s said and so he takes a deep breath, tries to focus on not falling apart. “You’ve my favorite, y’know. So good.”

“You make me good-er,” he says, trying to make her smile again, wanting to see the way her eyes shine with something other than hurt and betrayal. When they do, he’s proud. Wants more. Wants everything.


End file.
